


Imposter?

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Purgatory, shifter!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In purgatory, after Castiel leaves so abruptly, Dean is on his own and fears he will die.  Help comes from an unexpected source – his brother.  However, Sam is not all he appears to be. This Sam is a shape shifter who is channeling Dean’s thoughts and memories to create the brother Dean needs.  Dean finds that <i>this</i> Sam wants to be more than a brother to Dean and, despite trying to resist, Dean finds that he wants that too. When the real Sam finally does get Dean out of purgatory, Dean’s relationship with his brother is irreconcilably changed.  Can Dean forget what he once had and learn to live with the ‘real’ Sam or was the Sam who loved Dean in purgatory right all along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imposter?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [samdean-otp Mini-Bang 2012](http://samdean-otp.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Many thanks to my artist on LJ - zempasuchil - Links for art to follow.

It is dark and he can smell something up close.

There is a rustling in the undergrowth and somewhere in the periphery of his vision, a blurred and misshapen figure moves quickly, the stink of it cloying in his nostrils. He makes a quick assessment of weapons - _knife in his boot, gun tucked into his belt, a short length of wire (don’t ask) wrapped around his wrist._. Something growls behind him and he feels a wry but hysterical laugh building up in his throat. What he has is hardly enough to protect him down here, not enough to hold back the things that creep steadily and inexorably towards him.

He backs up against a tree and tries to think. He has no idea where Cas went or if he is coming back. Although damaged the angel’s presence would afford a slight sense of security, maybe even keep them alive just that little bit longer.  
There must be shelter somewhere he figures, a cave or the trunk of a tree that might screen him from prying eyes. He shuffles to the left, the bark from the tree catching in his hair, the cold air cloying and the mist that seems to cling to the place is thick, white and grey tendrils offering very little cover from the dark.

“Cas...,” he whispers it, low and desperate, his teeth clenched to stop them chattering with cold and with fear. There is no answer, the angel doesn’t suddenly pop into view and the fearful darkness and murk moves closer. He swallows down everything and slithers down the tree trunk slowly, flattening himself against the earth, neck bowed as he gets as close to the tree as he can, his mind wandering as he wonders what might appear behind it. 

Like some of the _things_ here he crawls, belly down, through the muck, cold water splattering onto his face, a tepid bitter taste cloying his mouth.  
The cave entrance loomed into view and he saw it as some sort of Shangri-la, shuffling into it, low and panting, his whole body shaking, and his heart thundering as if he was on the verge of an attack.

It was as black as pitch inside, rocks hard and sharp pricking into his arms, his thighs, and his stomach. Uncontrollable feelings of terror made him wonder if there were things already here, lurking in the darkness, ready to pounce and attack with teeth and claws. Trembling fingers reached inside his pocket and – there it was – he wasn’t sure but – fuck – there it was, his lighter, ready and able. Two flicks and the cave was flooded with light, orange and fierce.  
The cave was empty.

****

He always hated camping; since the incident with the Wendigo in Blackwater Ridge, he had avoided cases that involved forests, trees or anything vaguely wild. It was a joke really, a cosmic laugh, they were hunters and most people would associate hunting with the wild, shooting ‘Bambi’ or skinning some poor rabbit. Dean had shot and killed real living creatures but he preferred not to, would only do it for food or warmth.

Now he was huddled down in _his_ cave. It was dark and cold, the occasional flick of his lighter supplying the only light. He was freezing, cold and the damp was seeping into his bones, making his muscles ache, his body shiver. Goosebumps rose on his arms and he huddled down further into the leather of his jacket, taking foolish comfort in something familiar.

He heard a noise and the lighter went out plunging him into darkness. He wanted to call out, to say Castiel’s name but he kept resolutely silent. He heard an odd slithering, saw something enter the cave, something weirdly formless, a pale wriggling creature. He backed up, catching the thigh of his jeans on the rough stone. The thing, whatever it was, came closer and he saw that it was almost human in shape. 

Two arms, two legs and what might have been a face.

He was certain it didn’t have eyes; certain it couldn’t see him but when it brushed against him he almost vomited, horror flooding his veins, fear like he had never known. He almost bent in on himself, as the thing seemed to attach itself to him, cold, shapeless fingers clutching at his skin, just touching him.

His stomach protested and he heaved, swallowing down bile, the bitter taste of it in his mouth. The thing was breathing – he was sure of it and he pushed hard at it, heard the spongy thud as it dropped, turning his head away and burying himself deep within _his_ cave.

He stayed like that for, what seemed, an eternity. He was tired and worn, the whole day seemingly a nightmare of contradictions. Dick was dead – or at least he thought he was – and Castiel was gone. Sam – shit he had no idea where his little brother was and he was alone here. He knew his quest for salvation was almost futile and that he would be lucky to see another dawn but he was a Winchester and Winchesters didn’t give up or give in easily. 

He must have dozed; he woke with a start, the darkness behind his eyelids replaced by darkness in front of them. He could hear something and he froze, one hand reaching for his lighter, the other moving downwards to grab the knife in his boot.

“Dean?” 

The voice was soft and hauntingly familiar. His mouth was dry, dust dry and he opened his mouth to speak, nothing but a pathetic squeak coming out.

“Dean – I know you are in there. Please….” 

Sammy? It couldn’t be Sammy. He wasn’t here, he couldn’t be, Dean would know. Dean would have seen him by now; Sammy would have found him sooner.

He got to his feet and walked towards the entrance. He was shaky, afraid and, foolishly, hopeful. He could see the outline of something (someone?) tall and broad in the mouth of _his_ cave and he swallowed hard, bile biting the back of his throat again.

“Sammy?” His voice sounded alien to him, cracked and vulnerable, as if the very act of saying that name would break some sort of spell. “Sammy?”

The figure in the doorway moved forwards and he saw clearly, saw the familiar sweep of hair over the collar, the softness of it. He saw a long jawed face, high bones and slanting eyes that were stormy, brows hidden beneath long bangs. He saw the mole above the nose, those wide, flaring nostrils, and the sincere expression.

Sam – but it couldn’t be.

“Dean.” Even the voice was right, just pitched how it should be, warm and gentle, a long fingered hand stretching out to touch his arm even as he pulled away, fearful of everything including his own fucking feelings.

“Who the fuck are you?” His anger spilt out, horror too. “Cause you sure as Hell are NOT my brother.”

[ ](http://annie46.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/339/29364)

“You’re Dean,” the thing that looked like Sam said, voice low, careful. “Dean.”

“Yeah, I got that.” His hand crept slowly down his own leg, fingers reaching frantically for the knife.

“Please.” That voice, shit it made his heart ache. “You – it is me – Sammy.”

“No.” Fingertips closed around the hilt. “It isn’t.”

“I-I won’t hurt you. We can protect each other.” A plea. “You – I think I frightened you before.”

He remembered the formless thing, the feeling of cold fingers on his wrist and comprehension dawned.

“Shifter?” 

“Please, Dean.” Warm fingers are on his face, now. Warm, reassuring and so gentle. “I am Sam, now. I can be Sam for as long as you need.”

“Sick fuck - let me go!” He pushed at the thing’s chest but the knife hung in his fingers useless. Even though he knew, even though his head was telling him that this wasn’t his brother, that it was a thing to be destroyed, his heart was pounding and his soul was screaming. Sam’s face, that beloved, familiar face, fell and he saw a recognizable misery in those slanting eyes, a sudden quirk of that wide mouth, white teeth digging into the lower lip, pleading.

“I can protect you,” and it sounded so sensible, so right, the tone and pitch just too fucking perfect. “We can protect each other. It is dangerous here and it is best we stick together. I tried to communicate with you yesterday but you didn’t understand me, didn’t trust me.”

“So you thought you would take my brother’s form?” Dean felt sick, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He wanted this so much, Sam by his side, Sam fighting with him but – but this wasn’t Sam. This was some monster; this was something he ought to be killing rather than having a conversation with it.

“You are familiar with this form.” A blush formed across high bones, eyes bright above them. “And it is one you trust.”

“You’ve just taken his fucking face, you freak.” Dean was angry and ashamed, ashamed that he hadn’t taken the knife and killed the monster, angry that it knew his weakness so well.

“I am Sam,” the thing stated, purposefully, warm hands seeking his shoulders again, soft fingers digging into his skin. “For all intents and purposes, I am Sam. When I touched you, I started to download your memories and by default his. Whatever you are together back _‘there’_ we can be here.”

Dean swallowed down the lump that seemed to lodge in his throat and called it bile. He could feel those long fingers exploring all the tense spots in his muscles; hear the familiar pattern of his brothers’ breathing. 

“Don’t,” he said, but it was less convincing now. “Please don’t.”

“We need each other.” Pleading, cajoling, every single nuance, every single move was Sam’s. “I know what it is like here. I know how to survive. Hell, I’ve done it for over two years now so I must be good at it. You – you know things and you work well with Sa- . . . me.”

Dean bit his own lip hard. The thing that wasn’t Sam had a point. He, clearly, knew Purgatory more than Dean did; he knew what lurked here, how to avoid being killed. He glanced up and saw his brothers’ speckled hazel eyes looking down at him, moist, pleading, pure Sam.

“Are you an Alpha?” What difference this made he didn’t know but he asked anyway.

“No, our father died in the demon’s lab.” Lowered eyes and a crestfallen expression and Dean couldn’t even look anymore. “We are either killed and we fall here, or we are made here. Eve – she made me and I have no other purpose than to survive here it seems. I never made it anywhere else.”

Dean swallowed again, something blocking his airways; stinging his eyes and making them water, salty and sore.

“Where do you sleep? How do you feed?”

“I sleep when I can. I know a place where there is food and water, it is a long way from here and difficult to access. It is well guarded.” The Sam ‘thing’ was looking hopeful now, eyes wide with it. “Together we can do it.” There was that smile, killer dimples, white teeth. “We work well as a team.”

“You’re not my brother.” It is a simple statement but weakly delivered. Dean knows he is weak, knows what his weaknesses are and so does this thing. His baby brother has been Dean’s Achilles' heel since the day he was born. Dean took Sammy into his arms and held him close, smelled his baby scent and heard the little sniffles he made and he was in love, instantly. There would never really be anything else in Dean’s life that was as important as Sam was, and to some extent that was the problem.

“I feel like I am.” There was something steely in that one statement, something like fire in those familiar eyes. “This is a bad place Dean but – but things do survive here and the longer you survive the better hope we have of getting you back home.” _’To the real Sam’_ , he wanted to add but it would have sounded cruel, and unnecessary. He had an idea that he wouldn’t be going home again anytime soon, unless Castiel made an appearance, so for now he had his ‘faux’ brother and a cave and he had to try and make it work.

**** 

In the first few days, they do their best to turn the cave into a sanctuary and living quarters combined. ‘Sammy’ brings in foliage and wood to make a central fire and he brings in moss and grass to twine together to make makeshift beds. He works diligently hacking up rocks, stones and large pieces of wood to try to build a stockade at the mouth of the cave, the purpose being to keep the hot air in and the monsters out.

Dean boils water from outside, brackish and stinking, to try to make it drinkable. There are berries that look evil but he figures that most of the things here are already dead so they won’t actually die if they eat something a little ‘off’. He is, possibly, the only living thing in Purgatory and he cannot shake off the creeping dread that that thought shoots through his veins.

His only comfort is ‘Sammy’. Despite the fact, he keeps telling himself this is not his brother he can’t quite reconcile himself to it. The thing with ‘Sam’s’ face behaved like his brother, talked like him, walked like him, used his mannerisms. It was creepy and reassuring and it disturbed Dean, it added to his fear and loathing of the place.

Now the creature bent over the fire, broad shoulders hunched, with eyes brightened by the illumination of the yellow flames. The very act reminded Dean of Sam when he was concentrating on the laptop, tongue between his teeth, and dent between his eyebrows. His posture, his very essence screamed, _SAM_ and Dean didn’t know what to do or say.

“We should think about getting some proper food,” ‘Sam’ spoke softly, his eyes flicking from the fire to Dean’s face. “That place I told you about – it is a two day walk from here.”

“Why is it here?” Dean couldn’t begin to comprehend this place. In its own way it was worse than Hell, there were no rules, no boundaries and everything that existed here seemed to have its own agenda. “The place where there is food.”

“Torture – punishment – who knows?” ‘Sam’ wiped his face with long fingers and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. “Whoever rules this place now, likes to see the things here suffer. There is no escape from this place, no way out.” 

“Then why do you fight so hard to survive?”

“Every single thing in this universe has a survival instinct. I exist and despite everything, I want to continue to exist. Perhaps one day, on another plane, I can have some sort of a life - a normal life.”

Dean felt his heart aching deep down in his chest. He looked into those speckled hazel eyes and listened to those soft repeated words. Sam’s search for _normal_ had ended years ago but this ‘Sam’, this ‘Sam’ still strove towards it, and it gave him something to live for, something to fight for.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed fruitless, almost superficial and he hated that he sounded so glib. “You know . . . .” He waved his hand around almost aimlessly.

“Why are you sorry?” Voice pitched low, ‘Sam’ leaned forward, that sincere look on his face, the one he used when talking to frightened witnesses, the one Dean had missed so much when he hadn’t had a soul. “It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“Sammy.” The name slipped out of his mouth, tripped off his tongue without him being able to hold it back. “Sammy.”

“You always take the blame for everything, so much guilt.” ‘Sam’ was frowning. “But you shouldn’t, you know. The demon beside my crib, the blood, me dying, Hell, and being soul-less, none of that was your fault, Dean.”

He knew that, of course, he did, but he hadn’t ever really voiced it. For all the years they had been together, for all the times they had been alone in motel rooms or diners, sitting on the hood of his baby with a beer, they had never really talked, never really explored their inner feelings, and their fears. He was closer to Sam than any human being but he still didn’t really understand his brother, perhaps he never would understand him but here, in this deep, dank cave, he was listening – maybe for the first time – to Sam’s internalizing and it should have scared him but it didn’t.

“We just never catch a break, huh?” His smile was as fake as they come and he knew that ‘Sam’ would know that. “Me and you – we just never catch a break.”

“You are my hero,” ‘Sam’ sounded sincere, voice low pitched. “I looked up to you – wanted to be you – wanted you to be happy.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple rising and falling. Dean waited, it seemed odd, sitting here talking to this creature, this monster that was wearing his brother’s face, that was taking his brother’s form, that seemed to know his brother’s thoughts. Yet it was cathartic, like the therapy session he had never wanted.

“You’re not Sam.” It was one last attempt to keep sane, to tell himself that this wasn’t happening, that he would find himself back in the lab, Dick a mangled heap at his feet, Sam running over to him, holding him in one of those rare but much needed hugs, the two of them back in the Impala and on the road again.

“I am.” It was a stark statement. “Here I am.”

Dean shook himself then and got to his feet, taking in the dank cave, the dark misty exterior, the sounds and growls beyond the door. He was in purgatory and he was, to all intents and purposes, alone. He would use the creature that appeared to be his brother but he wouldn’t let himself get sucked into this illusion, this fantasy.

“I’m hungry,” he said, his voice purposely flat. “Let’s go find this place and gank a few monsters on the way.”

‘Sam’ stared at him for a long moment and then nodded, his own face smoothing out, his eyes expressionless.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s gank a few monsters.”

****

Nothing has changed.

Red-eyed _things_ lurk in every corner, behind every tree and rock. There is something in the undergrowth, an odd stench that permeates every single inch of purgatory, the stench of death.

Dean’s knife is in his hand and his head turns around constantly until his neck aches and he feels like some kind of owl. Despite having, no real weapon ‘Sam’ leads the way, his feet seem to know the well-worn trail and whatever is waiting out there appears not to want to confront them. Dean knows this won’t last but he feels somehow easier, safer, with ‘Sam’ as his hunting partner. They both know how to fight and how to win; they both have skills far beyond a lot of the things here. Blanketed by ‘Sam’s’ huge form he isn’t thinking that this ‘isn’t’ his brother, he is hunting with Sam again and that is all that matters.

Something moves in the undergrowth and Dean whirls around, knife held high. There is a low growl and cold slime slicks his ankles. He feels sick but keeps moving, eyes down for a moment.

“Left,” ‘Sam’s’ voice is low. “Over there in the tree.”

Dean’s eyes flick upwards; red eyes glare at him from the upper branches and he sees the flash of teeth. There is a scream, inhuman and high pitched, then something is on top of him and he is flailing in the mud, his knife hand trapped beneath his writhing body, bucking hard to try to free himself.

There is a whoosh and the creatures head implodes as if rigged with dynamite. Black goo splatters all over his hands, chest and face and he pushes the dead thing off him, his eyes wide as he sees the blur that is ‘Sam’ wielding a huge branch, beating the thing until it is nothing but pulp. The creature’s black blood is everywhere and it stinks. It is like a homing beacon and, suddenly, there are more monsters, red-eyed, fierce fanged, claws out. Dean feels himself tugged this way and that, like a turkey wish-bone, his muscles screaming as he tries to get away, eyes closing for a moment, agony shooting through him.

When he opens his eyes, again, he is on the ground and Sam is standing in front of him wielding the branch in one hand, a spear-like weapon in the other. His mouth pulled back, teeth bared and his eyes wild. He is like a wild cat protecting its young, strong, and determined. Dean can see the pile of monster flesh at his feet, sees his face covered in black, red and green fluid, eyes burning.

There are no more creatures attacking. They have vanished back to wherever they came from, they have taken on the Winchesters and lost and Dean feels the lump in his throat expand as if he has swallowed mud.

He staggers to his feet and he is pulled into ‘Sam’s’ long arms, held tight in a firm embrace, his head buried into the juncture where ‘Sam’s head meets his neck. Under the stench of blood and gore, ‘Sam’ smells like – well – ‘Sam’ and Dean clings on, laughter bubbling to the surface, hysterical and uncontrollable.

****

They sleep in an overhang; it is cold, wet and murky, the stink of earth and mould strong in their nostrils. Dean lets ‘Sam’ huddle around him, rests his head on Sam’s broad shoulder. His stomach moans and he puts a hand over it, willing hunger away. He knows he cannot survive on brackish water and _evil_ berries forever and the fight today only served to highlight how weak he is here, how his skills, however honed, are useless against the strength and numbers of the creatures that existed in this hideous place.

Long fingers tangled in his hair, pads massaging the soft skin beneath. He swallowed and nuzzled closer feeling lost and confused, light-headed and strangely disconnected. He had no idea how time passed here, if it was the same as Hell. He couldn’t even begin to guess how many days or weeks had passed since Cas had flashed out and left him, how many days had passed since ‘Sam’ found him, how long his _real brother_ had been looking for him.

“Dean . . . ,” ‘Sam’s’ voice was soft against the shell of his ear and he shivered, an odd sensation creeping down his spine. “Go to sleep.” 

He closed his eyes and leant back into the gentle touch of fingers and, finally, he slept.

****

The next day went easier, ‘Sam’ had fashioned a weapon out of the branch he had killed the first monster with and he carried it in front of him, a warning or a threat to whatever might tackle them. Dean had his knife and a spear he had made with said knife. They strode through the murky mist, ignoring what lurked in the shadows. Dean tamped down fear and loathing and walked, resolutely, on.

When he spots the table laden with hamburgers, fries, bottles of cold beer he instantly thinks of the Green Room and his stomach flips. ‘Sam’ puts a big paw on his shoulder.

“Everyone sees what they want to see, what they like.” ‘Sam’s’ smile small and dimpled. “I see salad and shake and frothy, frothy coffee.”

“God.” Dean’s stomach grumbles. “I thought this was something we might pack up and carry with us, didn’t want to do this journey again.”

“I’m sorry,” ‘Sam’s’ voice, sounds right, regretful. “Eat and drink your fill – I’ll take first watch.”

Dean crouches at the table and wraps his fingers around a burger. He can see and smell the cheese and his mouth waters. ‘Sam’ is behind him and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that they are in a diner, eating supper before they crash at a no-name motel. He bites into the burger and it tastes just as it should. 

_This is temptation_ , he thinks, fattening him up to kill him or torture him, monsters ready to take a bite out of him when they head for home. _This is torture_ , he thinks, having to make this journey two or three times in what passes for a week. He sighs and takes another burger reaching out for a beer and slugging it down. He keeps his eyes closed, thinks he hears the clash of cutlery, imagines he can hear the low hum of diner conversation. 

“Reminds me of _Connors Diner_ ,” ‘Sam’s’ voice is close to his ear. “It’s your favorite, right? We always used to stop there on our way through to a case if we were in the area. I like it when you smile.” ‘Sam’ continues, “It makes me happy, it makes me smile too.”

“Sammy,” he talks through a mouth full of meat and cheese, his mind working furiously. His brother moves even closer, guarding his back as always, a presence, he can always rely upon. He has never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted Sam and he feels that odd clench in his gut again, a shudder when ‘Sam’s’ lips whisper close in his ear, telling him just what he wants – needs – to hear.

“Love the smell of you when you come out of the diner – fries and grease and beer. The soft sweet scent of your leather, that stupid cologne you insist on wearing – the one you buy cheap from the discount bins in the drugstore. Shit – I love the way you eat, the way you bite into those fucking burgers, your teeth, your lips. Dean – Dean, I love everything about you – always have and always will. Dean, I love you.”

His eyes snap open and he is knee deep in mud eating fucking red meat, in fucking purgatory. ‘Sam’s’ eyes are on him and he feels an irrational anger, rising to his feet and wiping away grease and grime, his fist coming up, swinging around, thumping ‘Sam’ hard on his chin, blood spurting from a split lip.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that! My brother – MY BROTHER doesn’t feel like that. H-He doesn’t want THAT,” even as he speaks, he knows it is a lie, a lie to himself and a lie to ‘Sam’. “You are just some sick fucking monster who deserves to rot here.” The bile he is spitting is needless, unasked for and he sees ‘Sam’s’ face fall, hazel eyes bright with something he cannot understand. It’s an expression he has never seen on his brother’s face, and he – he is the one who put it there.

“I love you.” ‘Sam’ wipes the blood from his lip. “I don’t care what you think – not anymore.”

“I keep telling you, you sick fuck, you aren’t my brother. My brother is back . . . .” He waves his hand redundantly. “Wherever, and you – you are not him.”

“Maybe not at first,” the words come out fast and low. “But the longer I inhabit this skin the more I feel like I am your brother. I feel like Sam.” A hand reaches out and smoothes across his cheek, a hand smeared with blood, red, human blood.

“And you are tellin’ me, that Sam feels like _that_ about me?” His heart is thundering hard in his chest and all his limbs are shaking. He puts down the half-eaten burger and lifts his own hand to rest in ‘Sam’s’ hair. “Is this part of the torture?”

‘Sam’ smells of mist and murk, of grime and blood. His cheek is soft, his stubble rough, his hand firm against Dean’s cheek, the other hand coming up to cup his face, tilt it towards him.

Around them red eyes and sharp fangs gather but Dean can’t bring himself to care. He lets ‘Sam’ bend his head; he lets Sam lower his lips to his, lets ‘Sam’ open his mouth with his tongue.

He is kissing his brother and it feels good.

****

They get back to their sanctuary without too much incident. Dean is convinced they were followed and that whatever followed them now lurks outside but he is too tired, too worn to do anything but flop down onto the rough moss bed and watch ‘Sam’ light a fire.

And, it is Sam – he has convinced himself of that fact – it is Sam – his brother, his life. He knows so much, feels so much that it can’t be anyone or anything else.  
Dean is good at self-denial but even better at self-deception and he feels as if he has been here forever and he feels as if Sam is with him.

The fire flares up and he sees Sam’s face lit up in flame; Sam looks tired, worn but happy, contented, the look of a man who has gotten his big brother back, the look of a man who loves his big brother.  
Sam loves him and he believes it; believes it fiercely, needs to believe it to survive. He has lost his brother so many times but here, here in this gateway, that is neither heaven nor Hell, he has found him again and he wants – he wants so badly. 

The fire is hot and ferocious; flames orange and red, throwing out warmth so intense it makes his eyes water, and his mouth dry. He strips off his t-shirt and his damp jeans, his skin glowing, sweat pooling in the dip of his spine. Sam sits beside the fire and watches him, watches him with all the intensity that he would have expected, that he had come to expect from his brother. They had survived the hunt, and they would survive again and if this was all he could have here in purgatory then he wanted to take it, take it even if it made him selfish, even if it made him sinful and wrong.

There is nothing here but the two of them, the light of the fire, and the flare keeping evil at bay. Dean hooks his fingers into the elastic of his boxers and pulls them down. He has been naked in front of his brother before but never like this, never for Sam’s perusal, or his pleasure. 

Dean saw it. Saw the open lust in his brother’s eyes, dark and mossy with arousal, mouth slack, and hand hanging low over his groin. Beneath open fingers, his jeans tented obscenely, and Dean could see what his nudity was doing to his brother and it made him hard, made him hot.

Had Sam always wanted this? Was this just some sick monsters idea of a joke?  
But then it was Sam sitting watching him; Sam with those big, deep lust filled eyes, Sam who was getting to his feet, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, slipping his shirt from his shoulders, revealing his chest, his erect nipples, flat stomach and happy trail.

Perhaps, Dean thought as he pressed Sam down into the hard mossy surface that passed as a bed, perhaps he had always wanted this from his brother, to kiss him, to lick out his mouth with his tongue, to rub gentle hands over his naked skin, his own cock hard against Dean’s, heat seeking heat.

It wasn’t right; he knew that, knew it in the deep, darkest part of his soul. It wasn’t right but he wanted and needed it, needed to feel his brother beneath him, needed Sam’s hands on his back, Sam’s thighs clenched tight around his hips, the warmth and tightness of Sam as he entered him, Sam’s moans of pleasure and pain filling the cave with sound.

Afterwards he was almost sick with guilt but he couldn’t actually bring himself to regret it or be sure it wouldn’t happen again. He glanced over to where Sam lay, arm still wrapped around Dean’s waist, smile soft and wistful, eyelids flickering as he dreamed.

Sam was beautiful and there were no doubts in Dean’s mind now that this WAS Sam, that this was his brother.

****  
Time still passed and he still had no idea by how much. Purgatory was still terrible and terrifying, things still lurked, things still tried to kill them. They visited, what Dean came to call, _’the food oasis’_ on a regular basis and the things he found there satisfied him, kept him fed and watered, kept him sane.

Then there was Sam; they were friends again, brothers again, their bond stronger than ever. Sam was his rock, his island, the thing that anchored him and kept him from slitting his wrists or simply going mad. This was a Sam, who laughed more. Sam, who threw his head back and showed his dimples, Sam in the murky cave they now called home, trying desperately to make things better for them, to make things right.

Dean couldn’t really pinpoint the moment the thing became Sam and not ‘Sam’. The moment, he allowed his heart to rule over his head. He had never thought incest would become one of his sins, had never really thought of his brother as anything other than his brother but since he had been in this place, here in this half a world, his thoughts and feelings had changed and he had fallen, hard and fast, for his baby brother.

Sam was protective of him; guarded him with his life. Sam fashioned weapons from everything and anything he could find. Sam foraged for food, went hunting for water, made sure everything was clean and edible. At night, Sam would talk about the past, about how much he loved Dean, about how he missed him at Stanford and how he didn’t want to live once Dean was in Hell. Whatever Sam tells him Dean knew already, of course he did. He had seen it in Sam’s eyes, heard it in Sam’s tone, and knew it by the tender touch on his spine or the bump of Sam’s shoulder against his. It was just – up on the surface – on Earth or wherever, Sam had never put it into words.

Now, sitting in this cold, stinking cave, clothes damp and dirty, hair matted and longer than it ever had been, beard stubbly and irritating, nails too long, teeth hurting, breath sour, now he was listening to his brother talk. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back in some _nowhere motel_ , that he was sitting on a comfy bed eating something sweet, listening to Sam tell him how much he loved him.

They made love regularly - not fucking, not the urgency of the first time. Sam was a gentle, tender and protective lover but he could be fierce and possessive. Dean admitted to liking that side better, liked it when Sam bit into his flesh, dug his fingernails hard into his bicep, bowed beneath him like he needed and wanted nothing more than Dean.

He never saw Castiel again; the angel had vanished from existence but Dean refused to think he might have been killed. It was dangerous here and there was no denying it. Things lurked in the undergrowth and skittered amongst the trees, every food-finding mission they went on was fraught with peril and both he and Sam had the wounds to prove it.

Yet despite all of this, he was happy, happier than he had been in a long, long time. He was alive and he had his brother, his brother who was sane, and his brother who was smiling and contented again, nothing driving them but the need to stay together and the need to stay alive.

****

Sam was lounging on the moss bed, nude and sated, his body relaxed. Dean lay beside him, reveling in the smile on his face, and the satisfaction in his eyes. Outside the hideous world he was trapped in moved along, clawed things lurked outside their doorway, fanged things scratched on the wall they had built to keep them out but it didn’t matter because they were warm and safe and, relatively, secure.

The light hurt his eyes; he hadn’t seen anything brighter than a flame for so long that it blinded him and he felt as if he was going to explode from the inside out. His whole body bowed, his arms and legs thrown back, the pain that throbbed through him almost unbearable.

He heard Sam scream his name; heard him scramble to his feet, the desperation and panic in his voice tangible. He began to struggle against whatever bound him, movement only making his pain worse. He had his brother’s name on his lips, Sam’s hand on his arm, pulling him, crying out, trying to hold him there, keep him there but the pull was too great and his dark world imploded into light and he knew no more.

****  
“Dean!” 

It was Sam’s voice, clear and hopeful, and he tried to open his eyes but his lashes were clumped together and he could taste salt and filth on his tongue.

“Dean.” Sam again, voice firmer now. “Please – open your eyes.”

Light filtered in as he forced his eyes to open, bright, intrusive light, yellow, red and orange and he groaned, turning his head into the floor.

He was lying on his back; head pillowed by something soft and warm. There was an odd, clean smell to the air and he breathed it in, recognizing flowers, grass, and the distant smell of food cooking.

“Dean,” the voice was close to his ear now, the feel of callused pads on his face. “Please you need to keep your eyes open.”

He grunts, dissatisfied, and forces his eyes wider. Hot tears spill out of them as soon as he does so, a myriad of colors make him wince, a blurred face hovering above him, high bones and fox-like eyes, all dark and desperate.

Sam.

“What happened?” He tries to keep his eyes open and he realizes the soft pillow he is lying on is his brother’s thigh. Sam is wearing patched jeans and a worn looking t-shirt. He is unshaven, eyes a little wild and Dean’s heart begins to thump painfully.

“I got you out.” There are tears on Sam’s face, dripping down almost constantly, and his wide nostrils are snotty, his hair glued to his face with salt water. “I’m sorry – so sorry it took so fucking long, but I got you out Dean.”

“Out?” He takes in his surroundings - a squashy sofa, a bookcase full of massive tomes, worn rugs and bright, bright lights. Rufus’s cabin, or a simile of it, he feels bitter bile in the back of his throat and he retches, rolling over and spitting onto the floor, ignoring Sam’s concern, and his tears.

“You were – you’ve been gone f-for nearly a year,” Sam’s voice is low, thick with regret, heavy with tears. “But I got you out, Dean. I got you out.”

As his eyes get used to this new, proper daylight he shudders. Sam is here but Sam – Sam is also in purgatory. His brother, his best friend, his lover, lost to whatever is out there, perhaps already dead without the protection they gave each other.

Yet Sam was beside him now, tears smearing down his face, sobs shaking him. Sam who looked decades older, hair longer and messier, shot with grey, lines beneath those tip-tilted eyes, mouth turned downwards, not a trace of dimples.

“I need a wash,” it sounded so trite, so pathetic, nearly a year in purgatory and that was all he could say. “I need a shower and a shave.” He is aware of how matted his hair is, how dirty his beard is, filth and muck permeating his entire body. Sam is still sobbing quietly, almost unconsciously, beside him and he, gently, pushes Dean from his thigh and gets up, his hand coming down to haul Dean to his feet.

Dean actually cringes away and Sam looks shocked and even more miserable. Dean knows, fuck he knows, he is suffering from the worse case of PTS and Stockholm syndrome ever. Worse than Hell, because he always knew the monsters that wore Sam’s face were just that, demons out to hurt him, to torture him. Sam in Purgatory was just Sammy – his brother – at least that was how Dean had learnt to think of him. It didn’t make sense, not now he was thrown into the real world, not here in the familiar yet alien interior of Rufus’s cabin, a whole year gone and Dean a changed man.

****

The shower is scalding against his skin and the dirt seems to be ingrained in him as well as on him, deep brown water seeping down the drain, scrubbing and scrubbing until it is tinged with red.

As he shaves, he notices the bruises on his arm, the deep indent of teeth on his neck. Long scratches down his back can be waved away as injury but some of the marks are obvious and it won’t take his bright, intelligent brother long to figure out what they mean. Dean feels a stab of something deep in his gut, he rubs at his neck, the lump in his throat tastes of salt, and he wishes he could stay in the bathroom forever.

The smell of meat cooking and the thick crusty scent of pie get him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Sam is hunched over the range, his hair hanging in his eyes, his shoulders low. He hears Dean and turns and for a moment, Dean is caught up with how beautiful his brother is, that tentative smile, a whisper of dimple, hopeful hazel eyes.

“You look better.” Sam’s fingers are twitching; Dean can actually see them. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” And physically it was true. “I feel fine.”

“Are you hungry?” The longing in Sam’s eyes is almost too painful for Dean to look at, almost too desperate for him to take. “There’s pie.”

“You know I am always hungry for pie.” He tries, he has to. Sam looks so hopeful, face lighting up at Dean’s words.

“I’m sorry.” He uncurls from his hunch. “I’m sorry it took so long. Was it . . . what do you remember, Dean? Do you remember it all?”

He thought, after soulless Sam, that they had done with lying to each other. He thought that even as he killed Amy back when Sam was losing his marbles, he thought that even as he pocketed Bobby’s flask instead of burning it along with his body, there would be no more lying. He could see Sam looking at him, assessing him and he didn’t know what to say. This was Sam but it wasn’t the Sam he was used to, the Sam he had spent the last year with. He had been in love with ‘that’ Sam, wanted him in a way that no brother should want another. Now he was dazed and confused. Was this Sam - _his real Sam_ \- in love with him? Did this Sam want him or had the fucking shifter been lying all along.

It hurt that he had to think of Sam like that, Sam who had loved and protected him, as a brother should. Sam who had stood by him, had fought with him, killed with him and for him. 

He stared at his baby brother, his face red from where he had been leaning over the range, eyes hollow and shadowed, looking so damn old for someone who was only just in his thirties.

“Have you been alone?” Dean asks, finally, to break the silence if nothing else.

“Mostly – yeah.” Sam looks up at him. “Jodie comes by now and again. Meg has vanished, the Leviathans all destroyed. Crowley was right about that at least, cut off the head and the body flounders.”

“Are you hunting?”

“No, just looking for a way to get you out of there – it took me a while to find out just where you had gone and after that . . . ,” he pauses, eyes on Dean, desperate like Dean was food and Sam was starving. “Fuck Dean, I’ve missed you so much. I-I just – didn’t want to go on without you anymore.”

Dean wants to say it’s ok; wants to take his baby brother into his arms and hold him extra close, wants to kiss him, to strip him bare and take him to bed, to offer the comfort he has been offered so often these past few months. Instead he gives Sam the cocky grin he is no doubt expecting and makes his way over to the table with a throw away remark.

“I’ve missed you too but hey – I’ve missed pie and I need that pie ASAP.”

**** 

Sleeping proves to be a problem; in Purgatory, they slept for a few hours each while the other watched. In Purgatory, they slept on damp moss and hard floors. There was no night, constant, eternal darkness and he didn’t have a specific _bedtime_ , just sleeping when he needed to.

The bed was almost too soft, comfortable and warm. He lies, wakeful, in the semi darkness, head turned to the window, mind whirling. He thinks about Sammy, about him being left alone in that terrible place, about what might be happening to him right now, if he is still alive, if he has been killed, or if he’s alone and afraid without Dean. Then he remembers Sam is here, _really_ here. He is home, they are both safe. Sam got him out. Sam set him free. It hurts his throat and he stifles a whimper that just might be a sob.

The bed dips and he feels Sam climb in behind him. Sam doesn’t say a word, his body big and almost over heated; a warm press against Dean’s spine. Sam snuggles closer, a long arm snaking over and wrapping itself around Dean’s waist, fingers tucking into the waistband of his sleep pants, gently stroking Dean’s stomach, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder, sharp chin digging into the bone.  
Dean felt a sudden lethargy wash over him; Sam’s body was like a comfort blanket, it made him feel safe, sleepy and without realizing it he closed his eyes and let himself be dragged into sleep.

****

As is the Winchester way they don’t talk about it; Dean pretends, silently, that he is fine, that he doesn’t really remember Purgatory at all, that he is ready to hunt again as soon as Sam is. Sam doesn’t push the issue, respects Dean’s wishes, doesn’t try to break Dean’s silence. He putters around the cabin making sure that Dean eats, that Dean gets some fresh air, that Dean has no physical injuries that Sam can see. Dean tenses when his brother inspects his body, knows Sam will see the bites, the bruises, knows that Sam isn’t stupid in any respect. Long fingers brush his neck and he hears Sam sigh but Sam doesn’t ask and Dean isn’t telling and it is almost as if Dean has two baby brothers who he just cannot reconcile.

Sam finds them a hunt in the Florida Keys; the locals think it is an alligator but the information Sam gleans leans towards it being a pissed off water sprite or spirit. It is balmy and hot as they speed down the interstate and Dean feels a thrum of joy, the first one since getting back ‘here,’ to be driving his baby again.

Sam winds down the window and leans his head out like a contented dog. His long fingers tap on the dash and his foot jiggles. Dean notices he has put on weight, looks happier and he feels a stab of real regret, regret that he left Sam alone again, and regrets that his baby brother had to hunt on his own, that Sam had to work out a way to save his big brother. There was still grey in Sam’s hair, still lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before but Sam did look better he – he looked more like the ‘Sam’ that had been with Dean in Purgatory, the one who had protected and loved him.

“Dean?” 

There was a question in Sam’s voice, something hopeful.

“Yeah?” 

“There is something wrong.” It was a statement and not a question. “Please Dean, what aren’t you telling me?”

Dean swallowed; he turned off the tape abruptly even though he really wanted to turn it up and, because he couldn’t do this while he was on the road, he turned off the interstate and found an overhang, somewhere quiet and undisturbed, to stop.

He got out of the driver’s seat and leaned against the hood. It was almost unbearably hot and he wiped the sweat from his forehead. In Purgatory, it had been constantly cold and damp and he had gotten used to it eating at his bones. Now he wasn’t accustomed to the heat and he felt a little faint, wishing he could get rid of his t-shirt or dive into an ice cold pool.

There was the sound of the passenger door slamming and Sam was up beside him on the hood. Sam had shrugged off his over shirt and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked at Dean with eyes that were shadowed with pain and desperation and Dean saw the Sam that had been with him in Purgatory, the Sam who he had fallen in love with, the Sam he still loved.

“What happened?” Sam said, again, voice thick with something. “You – I know it must have been terrible for you in there, Dean – but you are different somehow or . . . .” He flushed cheeks pink across the bone. “You are different around me.”

“Sam,” he whispered low. “It isn’t like that at all.”

“Yeah, it is.” Sam was crying, he could tell, he could hear the hitch in his breathing. “Since you came back you haven’t . . . .” The flush on his cheeks gets deeper, mingles with the tears there. “You haven’t even called me Sammy.”

Dean’s heart clenched; he should come up with some glib remark, some cocky one-liner that Sam might have been expecting. Instead he put his hand out and let it rest on the back of Sam’s neck, his first real deliberate contact with his brother since being back. Sam tensed for a moment and then Dean felt him relax, the muscles in his neck going lax, his breathing coming out low and deep.

“I saw those marks,” Sam continued, slower now, sobs subsiding. “Were you . . . did they . . . ?” It was clear what Sam was driving at and he felt himself shudder, fingers digging pain into his brother’s nape.

“I wasn’t raped,” he let it slip out easy. “If that is what you are asking.”

“Then what, Dean?” Sam’s eyes were pleading, red rimmed from his crying bout.

“You were there,” it came out starker than he wanted. “In Purgatory.”

“No.” Sam looked genuinely confused. “You must have been hallucinating – they made you see me. I wasn’t there.”

“You were.” Dean breathed in deep; he could smell fresh air, heat, Sam’s sweat. Something in him shifted and he pressed his body against the hood, his fingers moving and tangling in Sam’s hair. “It was you.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam, sounded completely at a loss; he pressed his own body back so they were lying side by side on the hot hood. Sam’s hand was cool and damp on his belly and he shuddered despite the heat. “I was here, Dean – I was here the whole time trying to get you out.”

Dean’s mouth was dry; his head hurt and he wished they had stayed holed up at Rufus’s a lot, lot longer. He hadn’t been honest with Sam and he should have been and now, now it was going to get dirty and he wondered, honestly, if they could get past this or if this might be the end of the two of them.

“There were monsters.” Dean untangled his hand from Sam’s hair and placed it over Sam’s own on his stomach. “Of all kinds, and there was this shifter – it – he had been surviving down there but he needed protection so he – he . . . .”

Sam turned to look at him with liquid eyes.

“He took your form, knew that you were the only person that I would even start to trust. H-He became more and more like you as the days passed. It was as if he was channeling you through me. He knew what you knew, Sam. He talked to me about things that only you would know. You have to know Sam – it was worse than Hell down there and – and Castiel had gone. There were things down there that would kill and eat you, things that liked to torture. It was you Sam, without you, I would never have survived.”

“What did he tell you?” Of all the things, he expected Sam to ask that took him by surprise. “What did he say?”

“Lots of things,” the lie slipped off his tongue. “He was you, Sam.”

“The marks on you,” Sam’s voice wavered. “Did – was that . . . fuck, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t get the rest of the words out. Sam’s hand on his belly was heavy, wet with sweat and his fingers splayed out, touched Dean’s navel, the first few hairs of his happy trail.

“He told you that I loved you, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallowed back bile. “He did.”

“I’ve always loved you,” Sam’s voice was a whisper, achingly familiar, memories of that stinking cave, the cold depths of Purgatory. “Ever since you carried me out of that fire, you were my big brother, my dad, my everything; I went away to Stanford so that I could leave temptation behind me, so he was right I do love you Dean.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” Dean couldn’t tear his gaze from Sam. Sam’s eyes were wet again, his hand shaking. “About the fact that I left you there and yet here you are. You were one and the same – it – this is . . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“You can do this.” Sam rolled suddenly so that both hands came and wrapped around his waist, his head buried into Dean’s neck, his mouth moving. “We’ve gotten through worse Dean. You can do this.”

“I can’t.” his head was spinning and he just wanted out of there.

“Please,” Sam’s voice broke. “Don’t leave me – not again Dean. I can’t do it on my own, I never could. Please, please – don’t leave me.”

****

They never got as far as the swamp; found a motel room somewhere quiet and cool, Sam carrying in the bags while Dean booked them in. 

They sat on separate beds, Sam staring down at the quilt as if it held all the answers and Dean staring at Sam. 

Dean wondered if he should just go but Sam’s desperate pleas resonated in his ears and he couldn’t leave Sam, not now, not ever. 

“He was right,” Sam’s voice was low, slurred by tiredness and grief. “I do love you and I have always wanted you – wanted you in a way that I knew wasn’t right. Difference is, he got to have you and I never will.”

“He was you.” Dean’s voice cracked. “Sam, it was you for all intents and purposes – it was you.”

Sam lifted his head; he got off the bed and walked over to Dean. Without a word, he pulled off his t-shirt, hair sticking up on end, sweat already trailing down his body, long salty rivulets staining his tanned skin. Dean swallowed hard, his mind going back to another place, another time. The body, the face, the hair was the same but he realized, with painful clarity, that this was a different Sam, this was Sam, his baby brother, this was the man he had become, the man Dean had made him.

“This is me, Dean,” Sam’s voice pitched at a whisper, soft and gentle. “And I want you.”

He knows he isn’t in Purgatory now; knows deep in his battered and well used soul that the Sam who protected him there, who loved him there wasn’t the same Sam that was standing in front of him. He had loved that Sam and he could love this one. He wanted to hold them both, pull them close, make them one and the same but he couldn’t. One day he might come to understand that what happened to him down there was a result of pain, fear and confusion. Now he felt he had allowed himself to be tricked and used and it hurt him physically to look at his brother, his beautiful, real and whole brother.

“Dean.” 

Sam was stripping off his jeans now, boxers going with them. Sam stood tall and proud, in front of Dean, unashamed in his nakedness. Dean breathed in through his nose, his own cock hard in his pants, his own body bowed towards his brother.

“Sam,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “You have to be sure.”

Sam growled; it was a sound he had never heard his brother make, hot, needy and desperate. Pushing Dean by the shoulders and taking him down, his body blanketing Dean, long arms pressing him into the mattress.

“I am sure. I’ve always been sure; in Purgatory I was telling the truth.” It was odd, hearing his brother say that, talking as if it really had been him, as if he really had been there. “Please, Dean.” Sam’s mouth came down hard on his, lips pressing deep, tongue thrusting into the depths of his mouth. “I do want this and you have to let me have it.”

Dean laughed then; wryly as he lost his clothing, shirt, pants, shoes, all pulled from him by Sam’s insistent hands. They were close, skin-to-skin, mouth to mouth and Sam was gasping, rolling over and pulling Dean with him.

“Inside me,” he panted, his legs wrapping up and around Dean’s waist. “I need you inside me.”

There was little prep and it must have hurt but Sam’s gasp was more of pleasure than pain and his ankles dug into Dean’s spine, pushing him further, urging him closer. 

The sensations were familiar yet different; this was reality now and this was them, Sam and Dean, the two of them bonded together. Dean was gasping, the pleasure coursing through him, Sam bucking beneath him, crying out and coming hard and hot without a hand on him. Dean stroked his brother’s messy hair, kissed the grey at his temples, the lines around his eyes. Whatever happened now or in the future Dean was certain of one single thing.

“I’m never leaving you again, Sammy. I’m never leaving you again.”

****

He awoke on a soft motel bed with scratchy sheets and threadbare eiderdowns. The light was filtering through the curtains, natural yellows and reds, a perfect sunset, the sky he could see was blue and white clouds skittering across its perfect surface. Outside he could hear the distant rumble of traffic, the odd shout or scream from the children’s play equipment, a loud splash from the motel pool. It was so real, so normal and Dean felt as if he was really truly home again.

Sam snuggled up close to him; his body was hot and smeared with sweat but Dean held him closer, stroked his hair, dropped kisses on his forehead, murmured words of love and devotion until Sam opened his eyes and smiled at him, tucking himself impossibly closer and starting their day with a sappy and tender kiss.

[ ](http://annie46.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/339/29169)

****

They opened the windows and let the air flood into Rufus’s cabin.

The icebox was full of beer and the fridge stocked full of meat, fish and salad. Dean knew he should feel an idiot dusting down the old book case but he felt a strange sense of achievement as the years of grime were cleared away to leave a clean and sparkling surface. 

Sam was humming; Dean could hear him, hear the soft thrum of joy in his voice as he swept the kitchen floor and tidied away the rest of their purchases. The cabin was beginning to look less like a hunter’s stop over, and more like a home and Dean breathed in the fresh air, looking out into the woodland and thinking how wonderful it would be to have a picnic out there.

From this moment in time, the Winchesters had retired; they had taken themselves off the map, they were no longer part of the network. It had been a long time coming but Dean couldn’t and wouldn’t bring himself to regret it. If they stayed in the hunting life, eventually, one of them was going to get badly hurt or die and leave the other alone. Dean didn’t want that, he had promised never to leave Sam again and he was determined to keep that promise.

Purgatory seemed like a decade behind him; Hell even further away. Castiel (wherever he was) had healed Sam and neither of them appeared to be dying of something. Their friends were dead and gone and Dean didn’t want any more pain. He missed Bobby, Ellen, Jo, hell he even missed Rufus and cranky Frank. Dick was dead and, no doubt, Crowley still ruled Hell but he didn’t need the Winchesters to do it and the Winchesters didn’t need anymore favors. 

They were done.

He tried not to think of the Sam he had left in Purgatory. In his mind he liked to think that the two ‘Sam’s’ had merged to make one but he knew he was being irrational. All he could do was to cleave this Sam – his Sammy – close to his heart and keep him safe. All he could do was love him and that, he hoped, would be enough.

“Nearly finished,” Sam’s voice was light, happy, his eyes bright and dimples deep, smile wider than anything Dean had seen for decades. “What do you want to do tonight? Fancy trying the local steakhouse? We should make an attempt to mingle with the locals.”

Dean grinned; mingling with the locals, becoming respectable, no more heaven, hell or anything in between. That sounded good, that sounded more than good, and in fact, it sounded perfect.

“Let’s do it Sammy,” he said and his brother’s smile grew, impossibly, wider.

End


End file.
